


cygnet committee

by cimabue



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Music, only briefly but: brothers, references to alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cimabue/pseuds/cimabue
Summary: Scott has a record player, and Jean thinks it's nice.





	cygnet committee

**Author's Note:**

> promise i'm not a music snob, and sorry for projecting nick cave onto jean.
> 
> no real plot! i like scott. that's the plot. title taken from cygnet committee by david bowie, obvi.

Scott’s got a small record player because of course he does.

 

It’s nothing fancy, pretty inexpensive - more of a novelty than it is a permanent fixture, because he needed something to fill the empty space in that one corner of the room, and because he liked vinyl better for the simple reasons that it sounded better and he didn't have to worry about working headphones around his visor or glasses. He didn't want to spend the money on a good one, yet. 

 

He has a decent amount of albums that he keeps in an old milk crate next to the bookcase in his room that Jean’s not  _ not _ allowed to touch, but he's so particular about how to handle them that she doesn't really bother anymore. It's easier and less nerve-wracking (for him, at least) to let Scott take off the sleeves himself than for her to try shaking them off with him hovering over her shoulder, hands ready and twitching forward with an accompanying cut-off word of protest at even the slightest perceived misstep. She likes watching his careful hands, anyway. He holds them like he'll break them if he breathes wrong.

 

The first ones she remembers him buying are ones that she went with him to countless resale stores for during their precious time off, in back sections that smelled like mildew and smoke from aged cardboard sleeves dug out of crawlspaces. They were all worn if not also old, not always obscure but not always very popular, either, but there were a few Billy Joel's and Electric Light Orchestra’s that made up some of the exceptions. He'd look through the bins for so long, cross-legged on the cheap carpets, until he had red fingers, saying that he needed  _ this one _ or  _ that one _ , that they were staples he remembers from the collection his dad kept - that he and Alex would listen to, enraptured, not completely convinced that (most of) these incredible voices that their father kept in a box in his closet could have possibly lived and died before they were even born. He doesn't know how much Alex can remember, but he knew all of them by name, and knew most of the track listings, would start reciting them before he had even turned the newly-found albums over in his hands. 

 

Jean liked going with him not because she could really aid in his efforts to look for them (because she couldn't), and not because she particularly enjoyed looking through bad novels and chipped dinnerware while he talked to her from the floor, but because whenever he succeeded he looked so sincerely happy - like a little kid - that she was about as sad as he was when he couldn't find what he was looking for by the end of a visit.

 

Then he'd buffed out his assortment with newer ones - or at least newer by comparison, because Scott was still a loser and a sucker for oldies - soundtracks, the occasional  _ best of _ compilation. He listened to them when he was nervous, which was all of the time, but when it got  _ really _ bad, he would, especially. Sometimes they were for just for fun, and those were the days that Jean liked the most, because she'd  _ always _ end up walking in on him, and he'd flounder for a second after Jean would see him lip-syncing. He could sing all of the songs, of course, and that'd probably be less embarrassing than what he  _ did _ , but he didn't seem to think so, and Jean thought it was sweet. So she didn't bother reasoning with him.

 

This time is one of the fun times.

 

Jean opens his door and is almost disappointed that Scott is facing the rear window when she does, but she sees him shucking off his jacket from his shoulders and his head shaking in time to the words. He glances backwards, mouth levelling out, and turns completely to face her.

“Hey,” he says.

 

“What put you in such a good mood?”

 

“I don't know. But I'm in one. Hold on, you don't like this one, let me change it.”

 

“I never said I didn't like it.”

 

“No, but I can- Jean. I can _ feel _ it,” he says, pointing to the side of his head, smiling, kneeling near the crate.

 

She sits on his bed (which is always more comfortable than hers, she swears to God) and watches him stand back up with a new album, spread his long fingers along the edges of the record as it falls out of the sleeve, and balance the edges between his fingertips after he sets down the cardboard.  _ You're lucky you already  _ do _ treat me like that _ , she thinks to herself, and smiles. Scott glances over at her with the vague impression that he's missed a joke. He replaces the needle, joins Jean.

 

“Oh, this song's not very fun.”

 

“No, but it's- uh, it's a good one.” He smiles.

 

She does too. “Pretty long.”

 

“Not too bad.”

 

“Ten minutes?”

 

“You made me listen to Nick Cave, Jean, and that's- those are pretty long.”

 

“Oh, my God. One time. Shut up. You  _ liked _ those.”

 

“And you  _ like _ David Bowie. So it's fine.”

 

“You know who else likes David Bowie?”

 

“Uh,” Scott says, “Alex?”

 

“Yeah. He told me to tell you that he wants to talk to you soon.”

 

Scott starts turning more into  _ Cyclops _ than  _ Scott _ , then. “Oh. About- that was a weird segway, Jean.”

 

She laughs. “I know.”

 

“About what?”

 

“I didn't ask. I didn't want to read his mind but I got the impression that it was about your birthday.”

 

And then back to  _ Scott _ . “He knows I don't-”

 

“And that's exactly why he wants to talk to you. At least it's not relationship advice again, or whatever.”

 

Scott’s voice drops. “I'm so bad at that. I was so bad at that.”

 

“I make it too easy for you.”

 

“Hey, that's- oh, hey, this is my favorite line.”

 

“‘ _ Shrieks from the old rich?’ _ ” she asks.

 

“No,” he says, laughing, “This, the-” and he look away from her and mouths  _ and I want to believe that a light’s shining through somehow _ .

 

Jean watches him get up to stop the needle from skipping, smiles wide as he moves to replace the arm, saying, along with the music,  _ we want to live, we want to live, I want to live. _

 

 


End file.
